


old maid

by pseudocitrus



Series: deal [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: AriSasa if you squint, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Size Kink, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay okay okay.</p><p>Listen.</p><p>Here’s the thing.</p><p>If Arima wants to play?</p><p>Furuta can play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old maid

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [old maid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659594) by [Lucyair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyair/pseuds/Lucyair)



> finally finished up this silly arifuru trilogy written from some hcs with neimana :''')
> 
> the arima/kaneki slash arima/sasaki is more subtext. just so no one gets disappointed!
> 
> hope you're having a good day!

Okay.

Okay.

Okay okay okay.

Listen.

Here’s the thing.

If Arima wants to play?

Furuta can _play._

:::

It’s been a while since he’s done the long game, dug deep into the soil and laid quiet seeds. He waters and bides. He smiles benevolently at “Sasaki Haise,” even waves with fluttering fingers. He can kind of see it, really, the appeal of him, even if he has to squint to do it.

Furuta steels himself to play the part with a lot of pretending, but — the moment he maneuvers Kaneki into his partnership — the moment Kaneki looks up with him with an expression as flat as paper and eyes that are as glassy as his glasses —

Furuta’s heart gives a tiny, tiny thump.

:::

It’s almost a shame, how easy it is. No poker face whatsoever. Arima practically takes a photo of every card in his hand and gifts it over with a satin ribbon.

Arima always hesitates for just a moment when Kaneki passes by him in the halls. He attends all their meetings promptly. He and Kaneki don’t meet to spar anymore, but Arima replies to all of Kaneki’s texts within five minutes after receiving them, even in the dead of night. ( _Hello?_ Furuta tried once, while Kaneki slept beside him, and he received a reply practically instantly: _Yes?_ Furuta sent back something about how it was just a mistake and then deleted all relevant messages, including Arima’s last _Understood. Don’t overwork yourself._ )

As for Kaneki himself, he’s nothing, just a cute little bottle waiting to be told its purpose. If Arima were a better player, he would have been able to pick his poison; he had forever to choose. As it is, Furuta applies a little pressure and a good grip and Kaneki’s lips turn up to him, all dewy and soft and, somehow, very obviously untouched.

Furuta clips Kaneki’s bud himself, with not a little relish. Who knows why a certain person didn’t get to savor that incredibly luscious rose first. Social anxiety? Guilt, maybe? Probably? Whatever it is, Furuta has no doubt that Arima has his reasons.

So does Furuta, for that matter.

“You like this, Boss?” Furuta whispers, and Kaneki gives him an exhale in response, a wisp of a thing laced with a tiny moan. Furuta hitches him up a little, positioning him better on the desk, burying himself deeper, and Kaneki sucks in a breath and bows forward, his forehead smearing a patch of sweat into Furuta’s tie.

Sasaki Haise keeps his cap tightly screwed; he barely admits anything that isn’t a pressurized hiss. Furuta jostles him around just a little, though, and Kaneki’s unbuttoned shirt slides further down one shoulder, and his teeth tremble on Furuta’s collarbone, and his free hand, the one that isn’t hooked around Furuta’s neck, sweeps over the desk, crumpling and scattering papers. He trembles. His muscles quiver around Furuta’s dick, massaging, and Furuta pulls Kaneki closer and plays one hand against his lower back. Behind him, Furuta jerks his sleeve back until he can read the hands of his wristwatch.

Still two more minutes.

“Shhh,” Furuta murmurs, rubbing his knuckles against Kaneki’s lower back. “Shhhhh. Not yet, not yet.”

To this, Kaneki has no real answer. Goosebumps race up his back; his spine arches. His ass pumps around Furuta’s cock and Furuta staggers, just a little, pinching himself, making himself gulp in a steadying breath. Not yet. Not yet. Shhh.

It’s the longest couple minutes of his life. He balances the two of them right on the edge of things, precariously. He hugs Kaneki close and is glad that Boss can’t tell all the veins in Furuta’s head are just about to pop alongside his dick.

It’s all been leading to this. Fucking Kaneki every morning as coffee brews — bending him over the desk and stroking him while watching the clock — learning his twitches and fetishes and weak seams — making excuses and slacking off for the past couple days to leave Kaneki exhausted from work and especially sensitive and wanting —

Furuta inhales. One minute left.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty.

He looks away, and continues the mental count on his own. He raises one of Kaneki’s legs and angles himself to make the longest, deepest strokes possible, and on _fifteen_ , Furuta reels back and goes, one thrust per second, _twelve, eleven, ten_ , grabbing Kaneki’s dick on _eight_ , pumping vigorously on _five, four, three, two_ —

Silently, the door to the office opens. Furuta oiled it himself, and left it slightly ajar, and texted out the plaintive request for a meeting too, and then sat Kaneki on the desk positioned so that he wouldn’t see the person enter and then stop abruptly to stare just as Kaneki cries out and climaxes. His sensitivity makes him loud; his helpless ecstasy cracks his facade like a prisoner tearing down their cell. In his fervor Boss even rows his hips, not a little, and Furuta only barely notices, because he is watching Arima’s face, and almost coming right there from _that_ , the way that he is watching their tangle: Kaneki, undressed and sweating and spent, speared and momentarily weak and sweet again on Furuta’s throbbing cock.

Afterward, if Kaneki notices that his ass isn’t filled to busting with cum, he doesn’t say anything about it. His glasses are halfway fogged up as he collects his clothing, following the neat trail Furuta made of it, a line of slacks and tie and underwear all the way to the office’s now-shut door. Furuta, for his part, turns around and pretends to pick up random shit too, while actually putting a soothing deathgrip on his poor, weeping dick.

_Shhhhh. Not yet. Not yet._

He almost wants to cry, from excitement.

_Soon._

:::

Furuta is almost positive Arima will come over in person to warn him off, so it’s kind of a bummer when he doesn’t, and instead makes Kaneki his secretary.

Okay. Okay.

Listen, if that’s the game, that’s totally fine! Furuta can play. It’s not even out of Furuta’s way, really, because what kind of subordinate would let his boss work late into the night, filing papers on his lonesome? Arima’s desk is a lot bigger and better for their activities and the smell of him permeates and Furuta notices too, how Kaneki’s dick gets harder faster in here, and how he almost comes (breathing hard, nostrils flaring) when Furuta stuffs one of Arima’s shirts against his moaning mouth.

Furuta always promises he’ll clean up after, and always does, leaving a couple presents behind like a hotel attendant lovingly arranging chocolates on laundered bedsheets. A paper on the floor. Streaks left on the desk’s glossy surface. A questionably moist pen.

It’s the bottle of lube that does it, finally, maybe. Furuta tucked it away into the left side drawer. It was huge, and completely empty. The day after he leaves it, right at the end of the hallway after their debrief with V, Arima stops walking.

“Leave him alone,” he says, and Furuta furrows his brows in confusion.

“H-huh? What? I don’t understand at all. Leave who alone, Kissho-san? What could you possibly be talking about?”

“I’m serious,” Arima replies. “Leave him alone. It’s distracting him.”

“My goodness. Are you telling me that little Haise is struggling in his work? Didn’t you just report that his progression is going smoothly?” Furuta covers his gasp. “Were you _lying_ , Kissho-san?”

Arima says nothing. Furuta waits, and then spins on his heel with a shrug and starts off.

“Well, the great White Reaper might not be too busy, but as for me, I’ve got a _lot_ to do today with my precious boss Haise, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I go ahead and —”

Arima’s grip comes down on his shoulder, vise-like, not three steps later. Furuta’s heart leaps up into his throat as Arima turns him by the shoulder, and then presses him against the wall. It’s not a shove or a push. Arima simply wants him elsewhere, and pins him there like an insect. Furuta looks up at him, feeling sweat break out across his body.

 _Shhh_.

Arima repeats himself. “Leave him alone.”

Furuta swallows several times, and laughs, shakily. Okay. Okay.

This is it.

“I think…” Furuta rewets his lips. “I think, unfortunately, that you’re misunderstanding something, Kissho-san. Like maybe you think that — _I’m_ — somehow the one that’s seducing Haise.” Furuta laughs, like the idea itself is ridiculous.

“Hey…listen. Haise is my boss, you know? The amazing Black Reaper. I’m just a speck compared to him. The only thing I aspire to in this world is to be able to do my job well, and that means doing my very best to do whatever my boss says.”

Furuta leans up, and draws his voice to a whisper.

“So, if he tells me, _Fuck me, Nimura_ …if he yanks down his pants and bends over and spreads his ass for my cock…if he muffles his voice into my mouth and asks me to make him cum again and again…don’t trouble yourself with thinking it takes any special effort on my part. It’s all just part of my duty.”

Arima is silent. Furuta sniffs a little and wipes at the corner of his own eye.

“I know it doesn’t look like it…but, my dear boss Haise, he has a pretty scary expression most of the time, but inside he’s really just lonely, you know? Sometimes the only thing that can make him feel better is when I fill up that tight hole of his with my huge dick. Sometimes I don’t know that I’m strong enough to pound him as hard as he likes, but he accepts my best efforts. Poor thing.”

Furuta shakes out a lobster-patterned handkerchief from his suit and blows into it. “It must be so hard for him. Sometimes — ah, well, he has so many responsibilities, so it makes sense, but at the end of the day, he usually can’t even bring himself to decide whether he’d like me to cum inside his ass, or if he’d rather have me cum in his mouth so he can swallow and lick up every single —”

“Enough.”

Furuta stops. Arima isn’t looking at him anymore. His hand drops to his side. Furuta feels his heart squeeze, as if it were trapped in the fist Arima is making.

The silence seems to tighten between them like cloth being wrung and wrung and wrung of all its color. It drags on and on, another couple minutes that feel like the longest of his life, longer even than the many months he’s spent watching Arima pass by him, longer than the countless times he’s played memories of Arima’s mouth on his body while falling apart into a penguin-patterned handkerchief.

Furuta wants to break the silence with laughter, or imploration, and forces himself to hold his breath. _Shhhh. It’s here. It’s here._

All the pieces are in place now. Arima’s gaze is dark with calculation, hazy with weighing variables, the actions that are left now due not just to Furuta’s choices but also his own. He should be figuring it out soon, if not now, the real problem. Not just precious Haise’s lust. Not even just Furuta’s lust and frank overabundance of free time.

Even with it all being perfectly planned, there’s still a chance for failure. Considering that it’s Furuta, that chance is probably above average.

But.

Instead of turning away, Arima steps forward. Instead of crushing him like a worm with indifference, Arima presses against him, gently. Furuta feels the hardness of muscle and the hardness of something else beneath Arima’s white coat, and when Arima finally finally finally finally _finally_ kisses him, his joy spills out in a wild grin.

Check! Mate!

:::

In Arima’s apartment, the door is barely shut when Furuta begins prying himself out of his clothing, with a kind of mad desperation that is halted when Arima grabs his hips and shoves him against the wall. The cool surface of it rubs Furuta’s nipples and he trembles as Arima reaches around him and starts unbuckling. His cock, still hard, presses up against Furuta’s ass, sliding up and down against his boxers in a way that makes Furuta want to just tear a hole in the stupid thing so he doesn’t have to go through the humongous agony of a couple seconds spent kicking himself out of them.

_Ah, ah, fuck._

He’s waited and waited and waited and waited and _can’t_ wait any longer. It kills him but he turns back and takes Arima’s lower lip in his teeth and rips off whatever clothing he can reach. The white coat pools onto the door — so does a massive shirt — so does his pants. Arima is hard, if not harder than he was before, and Furuta has no idea if his erection flagged at all since the thought of Kaneki begging for it, and, coyly, Furuta runs his hands over Arima’s chest, all perfectly smooth except for his pebbling nipples.

“I’ve been waiting,” Furuta whispers. “You’ve been waiting too, right? I can tell how much you want it. I can give it to you, I’ll give you everything,” and at that last, Arima tenses, and then flows. They kiss again, messily, stumbling through to the bedroom, which smells exactly as it did forever ago. Roughly, Arima pushes Furuta onto the bed, and Furuta braces himself and then stays put on his hands and knees, ass raised just as Arima finishes undressing and kneels behind him, the bed sinking beneath his weight.

No more need for _shhh_ ’ing. Furuta makes a pleading noise and Arima doesn’t answer, but does procure a bottle of lube, a large one of a very familiar branding, though this one is totally full. Furuta’s heart alights.

“Did you get that for —” _Me,_ he was going to say, but he interrupts himself with his own moan, a sound that slips out of him when Arima smooths a slippery finger over his entrance and then, without much ceremony, slides in. He works himself in knuckle-deep, and then curls his finger and angles it, stretching Furuta’s ass methodically while Furuta groans and stiffens and trembles with pleasure. In less than a minute Furuta yields enough to accept the thrust of a second finger, and Furuta rolls back and forth hungrily, trying to get across the message that he is also doing his best to actually verbalize.

“Aah, _aahh_ , you’re so — so so so big — I’ve waited so long — I’ve — practiced almost every day, you know, I found the biggest dildo I could and I — _yesss._ ” A third finger. Arima presses in deep and Furuta squeezes around him and the friction of Arima’s steady pumping, _so close_ , turns his legs and words to jelly.

“It — i-it — was close,” Furuta continues. “But it wasn’t enough. All I could think about — was _yours_ — the heat — and the shape — other people were fine, but _you_ ” — Arima is withdrawing his hand now, and Furuta turns — “I — I think that I —”

Arima presses his hand across Furuta’s mouth. The words are stoppered up completely, and Arima uses his other hand to guide his dick into Furuta’s waiting ass. The mindless cries that follow every filling centimeter die against Arima’s palm. So big, so big, so big and hot and _big_ , just like it was before, just like it was in every memory, so so so so —

Furuta’s nostrils flare, trying to replenish the air he keeps expelling in useless pleads.

 _Fuck me,_ Furuta tries to tell him. _Hard! Please!_

But rather than starting to thrust away, Arima wraps his arm around Furuta’s waist. He sits back, taking Furuta with him into his lap, and Furuta’s breath becomes labored as his own weight pushes Arima even deeper. He wriggles, confused, still muted, and Arima reaches down, and circles his hand around Furuta’s cock.

“ _Mmmmpphh,_ ” Furuta groans. The hand still curled firmly around his face pulls, drawing his back to Arima’s chest, tipping his face to the ceiling so that he can’t see a thing.

Arima strokes, slowly. His massive hand drags up and down Fururta’s length and Furuta makes his small noises and quivers on Arima’s cock. The sensation of being filled as well as of fucking the gentle loop of Arima’s hand quickly grows to be overwhelming, and so, when Arima begins to both tighten his grip and speed up, Furuta feels himself approaching his orgasm far faster than expected. His nails dig into Arima’s thighs, bracing — his breath sucks and bursts — he orgasms with his hips bucking helplessly, fucking himself on Arima’s cock. His vision, still aimed at the ceiling, blooms colors; he can’t see himself but the heat of his cum is splattered over his own stomach.

And then…Arima…doesn’t stop.

Furuta writhes. His hands rub Arima’s legs, trying to signal, “ _I did it, I came,_ ” and at first, somehow, Furuta truly believes that maybe Arima just missed it, and then he feels Arima’s mouth against his ear, laying a kiss and then a murmur.

“I want you to come again.” The hand that he has over Furuta’s mouth lifts, just a bit, just a finger; the air that rushes in is cold against the saliva smeared on Furuta’s mouth and chin. Furuta breathes greedily.

“You said you would give me everything, didn’t you?” Arima asks, and Furuta gasps, “Yes.”

“Well,” Arima says, “I want everything. Every drop in your body.”

The pit of Furuta’s belly heats. Fuck, that’s hot. But before he can say it, Arima muffles him up again.

The steady rhythm is relentless. Furuta’s dick, softened with exhaustion, fills Arima’s hand again. Arima keeps his pace, and it takes a little longer this time, but Arima shifts a little, accompanying his ministration with some light pumping into Furuta’s ass, and Furuta whines and climaxes, again. His heels kick out. Arima’s hand leaves his dick, but only to massage his balls encouragingly; and then, before Furuta’s shivering subsides, Arima returns to the steady, steady, steady strokes.

When Furuta climaxes again, his voice is barely more than a squeak, and his cum dribbles out with barely enough momentum and substance to clear Arima’s second knuckle. In response, Arima grips Furuta’s soft dick tighter, and it takes a good minute and a low moan but Furuta gets hard, again, somehow. A miracle that only the Reaper could summon.

Furuta’s eyes roll up and then shut, tongue tasting the salt of his own sweat smeared onto the inside of Arima’s hand. He doesn’t believe that he can do it, that there is anything left inside of him that Arima hasn’t already taken, but then, there, very deeply, some of his nerves rub together, and make a tiny little ember of flame. Arima’s cock flexes inside of him and that’s all it takes — pleasure rockets up his spine — the tiny ember flares and spits like a sparkler, and Furuta chokes, and his whole body, in lieu of yielding any more seed, spasms and spasms and spasms; and it’s then, finally, that Arima climaxes, his teeth grazing Furuta’s neck, his breath heavy and fluffing out Furuta’s dark hair.

After, Arima’s hands fall away, to wrap around Furuta’s middle, and Furuta collapses, breathing hard and deliciously. His hair, damp with sweat, sweeps out over his bowed face. He feels faint with pleasure, with the contentment of being so thoroughly used.

He’s never felt this way before, never had all of his lust siphoned away to leave nothing but a joyful purr humming through his body. Experimentally he summons the thought of Kaneki, and not even the thought of his professional tongue and needy swallows can move Furuta even a millimeter.

There’s one last thing now that he wants. The last thing that his dreams are always punctuated with.

“Kiss me,” Furuta whispers, and when Arima says nothing, Furuta turns around to nudge him about it again. “Hey. Kiss me.”

To his surprise, Arima’s glasses are gone — removed, sometime, when Furuta wasn’t paying attention. Without them, Arima’s gaze seems especially raw, as bright and clear as ice. His right eye regards Furuta without shifting.

“Arima,” Furuta whispers, and that’s it. Arima shuts his eyes. His soft mouth brushes Furuta’s, lightly at first, and then again, with pressure so incredibly tender that Furuta is smothered.

He can’t help but keep his eyes slightly open, to watch. The spoils of this game, so long-awaited, are saccharine. Arima’s lashes are so long and silvery; his face, slightly flushed, would be enough to get Furuta hard again, if it were in any way possible.

As for Arima, he kisses Furuta again, and again, with passion. Ears, nape, both shoulders and their protruding blades, even a couple fingertips offered shyly to his lips. Throughout it all, his eyes remain shut.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! \o/


End file.
